Enjoy Yourself
by Known Unknowns
Summary: Wilson can't hold on any longer. Is House ready to let him go?
1. Part 1: Everybody Dies

**Enjoy Yourself**

**Part 1: Everybody Dies**

_A/N: A fic I wrote right after the finale, literally the same night. My first fanfic, actually. Warning: SADNESS!_

_A/N 2: Edited on 5/2/2013 to lower grammatical crap factor._

_Disclaimer: I don't own House MD! All rights go to David Shore and the Fox Production Company._

* * *

Greg House was never one to hold patient's hands as they died. But this was not one of his patients.

This was his best friend.

House gripped James Wilson's hand as his friend drew short ragged gasps, which were becoming fewer and farther between as the cancer progressed into it's final stage; multi-system shutdown.

Wilson had been degenerating for the past month, and it was this rainy afternoon in November that House had guessed would be the oncologist's last day to live. He had exceeded his five month deadline by one month, but he might as well have dropped dead the minute Halloween came. House would have preferred that then slowly watching his friend die a painful death.

The morphine had been easy enough to get. Stolen from an ICU in Denver, which was where they were staying, was of little help at this stage. They were running low, and House was now relying on his vicodin to help Wilson as well. Unfortunately, for the past three days, Wilson had refused to eat anything, no matter how hard House tried. House blearily leaned back in the chair next to his friend's bed. They were in an upscale hotel in downtown Denver. It had a beautiful view of the mountains and the city. House remembered when he and a weakening Wilson had first come here.

Wilson was staring out the window, contemplating something that House couldn't fathom. He stepped forward to stare out of the wall length windows.

"House," Wilson said quietly.

"Hmm?" House grunted in response. The view was quite pretty. House wished they had come to Denver earlier, when Wilson was still strong and alive. They could have gone skiing together.

"If I have to die somewhere, I want it to be here," Wilson stated, contentment in his voice. House had looked at him strangely then, and for the first time in their twenty year friendship, House had encircled his best friend in a tight embrace. He rubbed his back and spoke gently.

"Okay."

And now, what seemed a million years later, the view did nothing for either him nor his best friend. Deluded with pain, when Wilson did speak he made very little sense. House knew the dying throes of cancer well, thanks to the dying oncologist. Soon Wilson would have a burst of clarity, perhaps eat something, then survive another hour (if he was lucky) before breathing one last, ragged breath, then quietly slipping into oblivion.

House had little thought of himself in the past week. He hadn't showered once, and he hadn't slept in four days. He ate very little, which was also due to the fact that he was starting to experience withdrawal symptoms. Still, none of this mattered or affected him compared to the intense pain that filled him. Stronger than anything his leg had ever caused. Nothing compared to what he felt when he took in the remnants of his best friend.

Wilson's skin was sunken and sallow, his cheek bones standing out in sharp relief against his gaunt skin. The doctor's silky brown hair had been reduced to a mottled gray and brown rag, lifeless and dirty. His deep brown eyes were glazed over, and most often closed. A mixture of gray bags and shadows hung underneath them, and a slowly thickening five o'clock shadow was growing on his face, not unlike House's. Moving down, where Wilson's broad shoulders and well-muscled upper body once were, thin, weak segments remained. Wilson was down to one thirty, barely weighing more than a teenage girl. There was almost nothing left of his friend to acknowledge. Of course, the worst loss was not Wilson's body and looks, but his mind. The brilliant, kind doctor was gone. He had barely recognized House for the past few days.

House gripped Wilson's hand tighter, and stared deep into the other man's eyes, trying to find some small ghost of his best friend, but found none. Only the blank, empty acceptance of death remained.

House briefly remembered the last lucid exchange between the two of them. Five days ago. Wilson was writhing in pain as the cancer tore through his liver and kidneys. He was vomiting blood, and it probably felt like someone was slowly dragging a knife in and out of his lower stomach. Wilson had a brief reprieve, and gasping in pain, he yelled.

_"I don't deserve this!" _he screamed this over and over again, hoarse with rage. The whole time House gripped his hand.

"I know," he would say quietly as his friend screamed about the unfairness of it all. And he was right. Wilson didn't deserve this. Wilson, the man who had saved so many lives. Not because he felt obligated to or because of the _puzzle_, but because he was a good person. Because he wanted to help. Wilson eventually stopped and huffed, looking at House.

"Never had a successful relationship. No kids. What have I really done?" he asked weakly.

"What have you done? Do I have to go drudge up your patient files and show you the disgusting amount of good you've wreaked on the world?" House countered. "Not to mention, you're... you're pretty much the only reason I'm alive," he added quietly. "And what with all the feeding the hungry, shodding the shoeless, and reading to the blind I do, apparently you've done quite a bit," he quipped sarcastically. Wilson laughed at this.

"Gregory House, my only legacy. It's true though, is the sad thing. _You_ were my only successful relationship. The only one who didn't leave me or die." Wilson was laughing harder now, and House couldn't help but notice that his friend sounded slightly insane. "We might as well have been married! The 'until death do us part' thing is certainly applicable here." That was the last coherent thing Wilson had said before the nausea hit, even worse now. There was no time to speak, and by the next reprieve Wilson was so delirious with pain he couldn't say a word.

House's head throbbed along with his leg, and he absent mindedly scratched his eyes, crusty from lack of sleep and tears. House didn't cry often. Once every decade or so. The last time he had cried was when Cuddy had left him. But for the past few days, almost every thought, every glance at his best friend, or any memory of their twenty years together brought forth a flood of burning, painful tears.

He couldn't hold himself together while Wilson was dying. What would he do when he was dead? House had contemplated killing himself, but had decided against it. Eerie reminders of the ghosts that had visited him when he had attempted to kill himself last time. Stacy's voice echoed in his head.

"_You can still be happy, Greg."_

Without Wilson? Unlikely. The last five months after House had 'died' were the best of his life, and he was happy. When he dated Cuddy, for a while he was happy. When he was with Stacy. Other than that, had he ever really been happy? Cuddy's voice now spoke, replacing Stacy's.

"_House doesn't do happy."_

How true.

These voices had been bothering him incessantly since the cancer started getting to Wilson. And they weren't just feathery shadows that would speak briefly from memories deep in his mind. They were tangible, as if Lisa Cuddy was standing next to him, and chastising him like she used to. They had worsened in the past three days. Cuddy, Stacy, Thirteen, Cameron, Foreman, Chase, Taub, Kutner. An endless parade of the life he left behind trampling through his mind, unhinging him.

"Imagine if we start arguing with each other," a voice said from behind him. House jumped and slipped out of his chair next to Wilson's bed. He let go of his friend's hand so he wouldn't drag him off the bed with him. He was sure this time, that voice was real. He spun around as he forced his leg to move despite it's throbbing protestation, and was faced with pale blue eyes and a mocking grin.

"Amber," he whispered in shock. He was struggling to stay on his feet, barely coherent.

"Your favorite hallucination is back," she said with a smile. House stared at her.

"No," he insisted. "Not again," he said, backing up until the back of his legs were jammed against Wilson's bed.

"You've been hearing voices for a month, and now that one of them isn't inside your head, you're worried?" she laughed, high and pure. "Leave it to you to rationalize the insanity."

"Go away," House growled. Amber raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'm _you_. I can't go away," she said matter-of-factly.

"You did last time," House replied.

"Just pretend I'm here for moral support." She cast her eyes toward Wilson, and a hideous grin covered her face. "Oh, dear. He's not in good shape is he?" Whatever small semblance of sanity that held House together snapped, and he lunged at the apparition. He felt real skin under his hands, but his rage consumed proper thought. He throttled her, and Amber choked and pleaded.

"Stop! Stop please!" But it wasn't Amber's voice. It was...

It was Wilson's! House blinked rapidly and jerked his hands away. Instead of standing by the door of the bedroom, strangling Amber, he was hunched over Wilson, who now had purple and blue marks blossoming on his neck.

"No!" House cried. He grabbed his hands. "God, Wilson, I'm sorry. I can't tell what's real anymore. I thought you were Amber." He doubted his best friend would be able to comprehend him, but a spark was in his friend's chocolate eyes.

The moment of clarity was here.

Wilson now gripped House's hands back and used them to pull his half naked form off of the bed. He was clad only in poorly fitted boxers. However, life emanated from him. Wilson's thick eyebrows were furrowed.

"This is the last time we'll ever speak, House," Wilson said simply, though his voice was incredibly hoarse. Of course Wilson would understand what was happening. He'd seen this happen to thousands of patients as they died. What a cruel twist of irony that Wilson would pass into darkness in the same way.

"I know," House muttered. The strangling was already forgotten. Wilson grabbed at House's shoulders, entwining his bony fingers in House's tee-shirt.

"Don't give up," Wilson choked out, milky tears brimming in his eyes. "You were the only constant in my life, House. I love you. You're my best friend. I wouldn't have survived without you." Wilson was speaking faster now. "There's so much I should have said to you years ago. But House, promise me, _promise me _you won't give up. You won't just fade away." He was sobbing heavily. House looked at his friend, tears brimming in his eyes now as well. They slowly spilled out of his eyes, collecting in his eyelashes.

"I promise," he said quietly. Wilson smiled at him, a brilliant, happy smile that House rarely saw on his friend. For the second time, House circled his arms around Wilson, and the two men gripped each other like life preservers. "I love you too, Wilson." House told the other man quietly. They stood like that for a long time. They both cried. But soon he felt Wilson's strength begin to flag, and he held his friend's hand once more as he lowered him back into his bed. _His death bed_, a small voice spoke inside of him. It sounded like Amber. He was trembling now. Wilson was staring at the ceiling. They both knew what was coming.

Wilson drew a long, harsh breath. One last round of tears spilled from the oncologist's eyes, and then all life flew out of him. His breath ceased, what little color was left emptied from his skin, and his body sagged back into the bed.

James Evan Wilson was dead.


	2. Part 2: Dying Changes Everything

**Part 2: Dying Changes Everything**

_Disclaimer: I do not own House MD._

* * *

Wilson was dead.

House was alone.

He couldn't cry anymore. He was almost relieved to see Wilson finally breathe his last breath. His friend was no longer in pain. But he was dead, and a gaping hole was slowly eating it's way through House's heart.

"Everybody dies," a familiar voice said from the foot of Wilson's bed. He looked to see Amber prodding Wilson with her foot. "You're not going to just let him rot here, are you?" House stared daggers at the illusion.

"Answering questions directed at me by subconscious. Seems a little redundant," he said angrily as he stood up. Wilson and him had gone over this. House would wash Wilson's body using gloves so he could dispose of any of House's DNA that was on his body, then place his dead friend neatly on the couch. He would call 911, and covering his head with a hat and his tell-tale blue eyes with sunglasses, House would make a quick escape from the Mountain View Hotel and relocate. After that, well, House didn't really know. The pain hazed his mind. He was barely thinking of much at all, other than one thought. _Get Wilson to the tub._

Using every last ounce of strength he had, House lifted Wilson's corpse off of the bed and slung him over his shoulder. Struggling under the pain from his leg, House stumbled and staggered until he managed to get Wilson to the bathroom.

"Thank goodness he lost all that weight, huh?" Amber asked brightly. He ignored her as he soberly stripped off his friends closed. Once Wilson was bare, he leaned over the remains of his best friend, and felt almost as if he was violating him.

"This isn't Wilson," House reminded himself out loud. "It's his body. Wilson is gone." After putting on gloves, he heaved the body into the bath tub, and began to set about cleaning him. It was disgusting chore. Wilson hadn't been able to get out of bed to bathe himself in several days, and had been wearing an adult diaper. After scrubbing his best friend meticulously, he lifted him out of the tub, dressed him in some of his favorite clothes (blue sweats and a thin gray tee-shirt) and placed him on the couch. Laying there, it was like someone made a porcelain Wilson replica. House stood there for a long time, just staring at his friend, wishing he would come back to life. He knew he wouldn't. But he also knew this would be the last time he would ever see his best friend.

"Take a picture," Amber offered from behind him. "That way you can remember forever!" House was having trouble controlling himself. He was afraid that if he jumped and attacked Amber, he'd end up attacking someone else again, despite the fact that he was alone in his hotel room. Amber was next to him now, pouting. "You're going to ignore me?" She asked. House gritted his teeth.

"You're not real," he said adamantly.

"Brilliant assumption. That a dead person isn't real. Great to see that you're still in full control of your mental faculties." She said with a satisfied nod. House sighed angrily and headed to the bathroom himself now. He took a short shower, just long enough to clean the thick layer of grime off of his body. He then put on fresh clothes. A charcoal vintage tee-shirt, jeans, and a blue button up. The usual. He walked out of his room, which he hadn't been in for days. Amber was sitting next to Wilson on the couch, painting his nails. Well, House assumed she wasn't really painting his nails, but the fact that she was desecrating Wilson's body still angered him.

He had to reign in his temper again, reminding himself that she was a hallucination. House quickly dialed 911 on the hotel phone, hung up as soon as the dispatcher came on, then quickly exited the hotel room. They would be here any minute. House moved as fast as his cane and leg would allow, Amber close behind. As he stepped into the elevator, he jammed the baseball cap onto his head and put on his Ray-Bans. Amber was now wearing sunglasses too.

"Sunglasses indoors. Isn't that a fashion faux pas?" she asked. House closed his eyes, not wanting to acknowledge the hallucination. After a short ride, he exited both the elevator and the hotel. He took in a deep breath of mountain air, somewhat relieved to be free of the stale, sick air in the hotel room.

"Free of Wilson, more like it," Amber piped up. "Free of _responsibility_." Not this again. This is what she did last time. No, no, no.

"I have to sleep," he said to himself, casting an upset glance at Amber. Calling a cab, House found the nearest motel and ordered a cheap room for two days. Entering it, the intense misery caused by Wilson's loss filled him again. It had only one bed. Tears threatening to flood his eyes again, House collapsed on the mattress fully dressed and fell asleep.

House had fallen asleep at six o'clock the night before, and woke up at three o'clock the next day. He groaned as he stretched his tight muscles, and his leg screamed in pain, along with his stomach and throat, which he had deprived of sustenance for far too long. Too groggy to think very much (which he was thankful for, if he thought, he would think only of Wilson), House drank several cups of water and ordered room service.

After another shower to fully clean himself, House was greeted by a nice breakfast sat in front of his motel door. He devoured the breakfast with gusto, and by four thirty he found himself sitting blankly on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the nausea building in his stomach. The vicodin withdrawal was worsening. Throughout the night, he began to get worse. He was shaking and vomiting, and the pain in his leg was the worst it had ever been. All the while Amber, whom House had hoped would disappear with sleep, taunted him.

Wilson, his leg, Amber. Wilson, his leg, Amber. Wilson, his leg, Amber. These three things consumed his thoughts, filling him with boiling pain and anger every moment. Wilson was _dead_. His leg was on_ fire_. Amber's taunts never _ended_.

Years later, Greg House would say that was the worst moment of his entire life. He was going mad again. Everyone who had ever cared about him thought he was dead. Wilson was gone. His life seemed, in that moment, utterly meaningless.

At midnight, House decided he simply could not fight anymore. House went into his backpack and pulled out something that he and Wilson had kept just in case they ever needed it. An SAA, fully loaded but with the safety on. House held out the gun in his trembling hands. His vision was blurry and he couldn't stand for long. Collapsing on one knee, he flipped off the safety and slowly put the gun to his head.

"That's it. Just give up. I mean, what do you really have to go back to?" Amber cackled. "Nothing at all!" Tears leaked out of House's eyes. With the gun pressed to his temple, he took a deep breath. This was it.

But then a voice spoke loudly in his head.

"PROMISE ME YOU WON'T GIVE UP!" The voice was administered much more loudly than it was originally spoken. He dropped the gun and covered his ears.

"Wilson," he breathed out. He fell to the ground completely now, his forehead touching the cool wood floor. "Wilson," he said again. His friend had just delivered a message from beyond the grave.

"Or you're just going insane," Amber suggested. "Actually, it might be a little late for that." House glared at her as he was suddenly filled with courage he didn't know he possessed, Wison's words still ringing in his ears.

"I..." He could barely speak. "I won't give up." He kept repeating this mantra to himself as he forced himself back onto the couch in his motel room, a bucket clutched in his hands. "I won't give up."

He never saw Amber again.


End file.
